Madness
by jewelledhunter
Summary: What was the fate of the man who reported to Lord Denethor that the city was burning? A oneshot of despair, sorrow, friendship, and loyalty.


AN: Don't own. At all. (points to Tolkien and representatives of New Line Cinema) THEY own it.

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I ran up the circles of the city. Fire surrounded me, choking me with ashes. The heat blanketed my breath, causing me to breathe uneasily as I ran. Screams reached my ears, making me wish I could run faster. But I could not. At least, I could try to get the message to the Lord Denethor.

"Failo!" a guard cried out to me. "Where are you going?"

"Alar! I have no time," I panted. Alar was dressed in the livery of the Tower; therefore he could not leave his post without his Lord's permission. "The Lord Denethor must receive a message from my captain."

"Good luck, Failo," Alar said solemnly. "May your sword be swift."

"If that helps in the following battle," I laughed bitterly as he let me pass. I continued to run. Already I was at the last circle. Suddenly, it was there, the pool of water surrounding the beloved White Tree of Gondor. Now a withered, black tree watching the shadow in the East as it roared toward us now. The guards who watched over it looked forever towards the East. Perhaps, as Minas Tirith burned away, they could do nothing to defend themselves.

I ran into the doorway of the main hall. Spears appeared before my face. I growled anxiously.

"Let me pass! I have an errand that will not wait!" I said loudly. The guards lowered their spears and I burst into the hallway, breathless.

"M'Lord! The first circle of the City is burning!" I said, walking to the Lord Denethor, my head bowed even in this time of crisis, when many formalities will be forgotten. He was walking to a side bedroom and was not sitting on his throne. It was the first time I ever saw him like that. "Men cry out for the Lord of the City! Not all will follow Mithrandir! Men are fleeing from their posts, M'Lord!"

"Why do they flee?" Denethor said, his voice filled with the weight of his years. He turned towards me, his eyes dark and foreboding. I flinched under his gaze. It had changed; before it was of kindness. Yes, sternness, but kindness. And now? It was just grief and anger. "Battle is vain. We will all burn! Better to burn now! I will not wait for my death. I will burn, like the heathen kings of old! The West has failed!Go back! Go back to your pyre!" I stood there, shocked. I ran back to the door, but curiosity burned me like my city. My city. I had to see what was so consuming to Denethor in that bedroom! Alas, my post shall be stripped from me, but would it matter?

I crept by the wall, remembering what my friend, Denethor's son Faramir, had taught me briefly. Stick to the shadows. Do not let the wind give you away (there was none) and walk silently. Faramir. I grieved for him; some in the City said he was dead from a fever. The fever had come from an arrow when he attacked the Orcs in Osgiliath, one of the few to survive. But somehow, I felt my childhood friend had not died.

The door was slightly open. I pushed the door a little more for a better view. Attendants surrounded a bed and a sleeping Faramir moaned on it.

"The house of his spirit crumbles," Denethor murmured. "He will burn with me. The Line of Stewards is ended. Servants! We will take him to the tomb of my fathers…" I stood, aghast. Faramir! To burn with his father as Gondor fell into ruin! The attendants started to walk to the door and I slammed my body to the wall, breathing quickly as they passed me. They all passed me by, carrying Faramir. Faramir's face was covered in sweat. I suppressed a groan and watched them carry him out.

I sank to the ground as their footsteps faded, feeling tears coming to my eyes. Was I a man? To lose my control as my city needed me most? I could see Boromir, my Captain-General, also a beloved friend, telling me to get up and comfort his brother.

"I trust you, now, with my brother," Boromir said. "Take care of him while I'm gone."

I stood up again, my fingernails digging into my palm. My tears coursed down my face like warm fingers. Take care of his brother.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," I said into the hallway. Boromir was now standing before me, his arms over his chest, staring at me. As if expecting me to do something.

"I cannot help your brother," I explained, pacing about a column. Boromir frowned angrily.

"Have you become that helpless, Failo?" Boromir said accusingly.

"What can I do?" I raised my hands in despair, my tears drying in my anger. "I doubt even you can curb your father's madness. Perhaps the rumors are true; he wrestles with the Dark Lord in thought in the Tower of Ecthelion." Boromir's image wavered. I was going mad with my lord. I was talking to Boromir's ghost! Valar!

"It is my death that has caused his madness," Boromir said evenly. "So you will act as I would. Go help Faramir."

"I cannot! They are planning to burn him!" I cried out. "You know how much I wish to help him…"

"Burn him?" Boromir grew even paler, if it was possible for a ghost. "My father…Faramir!"

"I can't do anything!"

"Perhaps, you can't," Boromir said mysteriously, "but I know one of the perian and another guard who may. And a wizard."

"What? Mithrandir? Boromir, tell me!" but he had disappeared. "Again!" I screamed, tears flowing again, "again, I am left alone! Boromir…" I sank to my knees again, sobbing like a lost child. Ghosts. I was going mad.

I got up again for the second time, muttering under my breath. Running out of the immense hallway, I passed the startled guards and ran down, down…The second circle was burning. Nazgul circled over the city, screaming. Men cowered, covering their ears. I ignored the noise and ran to my comrade.

"Morno!" I yelled. Morno looked at me, his sword drawn. Blood streamed down his shoulder. "Are you all right?" Morno laughed coldly.

"Aye, compared to Poldon," Morno said.

"Where is Captain Poldon?" I asked.

"Dead. You're our captain now," Morno said. The Nazgul screamed again and men cried out, clutching their ears. With a clatter, Morno's sword fell to the ground as he covered his ears.

"I'm going to become deaf at this rate," I muttered. "Rally! Third Division! Rally to me!" My comrades, scattered about and covering their ears, picked up their swords and ran to us. An Orc presented its leering face and I cut its neck off. We were fighting in a ring, fending off Orcs. As the Nazgul screamed again, I yelled, "Do not fear their cry! Fight!" My men continued to fight. I was pushing them too hard, I knew. But at least, they would survive.

I fell into a rhythm, picking off Orcs and often trying to get past the gate to the second circle of the City. But it was shut against my company. I growled in frustration.

"Captain, watch out!" Morno cried. Instinctively, I looked up and saw an arrow come towards me. Slowly, it came as I raised my sword futilely to block it and it embedded itself into my chest in one fluid motion.

As I fell, Morno gave a cry.

"Retreat, Morno," I said raggedly, Minas Tirith already fading before my eyes. "We were too bold. I have paid. Retreat, before all our company is lost!" The fourty-something men I had been captain for only two hours disappeared. As my sight faded, Morno kissed my forehead.

"Be at peace, son of Gondor," he whispered. I knew no more.

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AN: Review, perhaps? Yes, poor Failo is dead. I've developed quite an attachment to him, shame.


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